


Haemoptysis

by ponderinfrustration



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: M/M, Major Illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 11:36:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14307810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: Erik is gravely ill, and has something important to say to the Daroga.





	Haemoptysis

Erik has been coughing blood all evening, hunched over in his chair, basin balanced on his knees. A haemorrhage, he’d gasped, somewhere in his right lung, and Kazem was helpless to do anything other than hover beside him, bringing him sweet tea to try to get something into him, pressing cool damp cloths to the back of his neck to bring him some relief from the fever, all the time his mind whispering, _it’s to be expected with his condition, to be expected, nothing you could have done could have prevented it,_ though he could not bring himself to believe the words.

It is only in the last hour that the coughing has subsided, and he murmured that it was easier to breathe. Kazem sets the basin aside to empty later, and supports him to bed, settling him amongst the pillows that keep him propped up to take the pressure of his lungs.

He is just about to slip away, to get some clean handkerchiefs and water, but Erik grips his hand and squeezes it weakly, his eyes shining.

“Stay,” he whispers, his voice fainter than Kazem has ever heard it, “stay…Kazem. I have—I want—Kazem, I—” he grimaced, stiffens, grip tightening as if bracing himself against a cough that never comes, before his face smooths again, eyes falling to his hand still clinging to Kazem’s, “I love you.”

And the words are so soft, so soft Kazem is not certain if he’s really heard them, if it is not merely fanciful thinking on his part, but he swallows and forces a smile he does not feel because dammit it would be just like Erik to make a joke over something like that at a time like that. “Be serious for two minutes,” he whispers, “please.”

“I am.” And at another time he probably would have said something else, used more words and been semi-convoluted and wholly sarcastic, but Kazem knows Erik has not the strength for that now, has not the breath, and the two simple words cut him to the core. “I want…you to know. Always have.”

Kazem adjusts his grip so that he is the one holding Erik’s hand and not the other way around, and he raises that hand to his lips, brushes a light kiss to the backs of those cool fingers. “I love you too,” he breathes, his voice cracking, and as tears prickle the backs of his eyes he sees matching tears well in Erik’s eyes, and bows his head and presses his lips gently, carefully, to Erik’s forehead.

He does not ask the question that is forefront in his mind, the one that has haunted him every day of the last six months since Erik confessed his illness to him, admitted at last to his deteriorating condition. How much longer? Days? Weeks?

Instead he leans back, to look down at Erik’s face, so very grey and serious, eyes tender looking back up at him. “What are we like?”

A slight quirk to Erik’s lip, almost as if he would smile, if he had the strength. “Two old fools. But…but we always…were.”

 _Well, no use in wishing now that we had had sense sooner._ “I won’t leave. You can try to send me away if you want, but I won’t go. Not now.”

And Erik’s eyes slip closed, a definite faint smile gracing his lips. “Never…thought you would.”


End file.
